


You Bet Your Ass

by Ylixia



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Deadpool (Comics)
Genre: Daredevil/Deadpool (1997) Annual, Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Missing Scene, foggy is pure and good, literally no one there are literally zero fics for this ship on ao3, no homo let's fuck, no one actually technically bets their ass and everyone has a good time, oh my god i forgot weasel's real name until this very moment, the foggy/weasel fic that no one asked for, weasel is kind of shitty and his internal monologue reflects that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 16:17:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17901425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ylixia/pseuds/Ylixia
Summary: "I think I’m gonna pass on this one.”  Foggy shakes his head.  “You got more than enough money off of me tonight.”“C’mon man, don’t be like that,” Weasel says. “You’re getting better!  Give yourself a shot to get your money back.”Foggy snorts and sips his beer.  “Yeah, I bet you say that to all the boys you want to bankrupt.”“Only the pretty ones,” Weasel drawls, his smile going sharp and his eyes lidded and heavy with promise and whoops, he said that with his outside voice, didn’t he?





	You Bet Your Ass

**Author's Note:**

> Whoooooboy, okay. This one's gonna take a wee bit of backstory, given it's based entirely around a comic from 1997 that probably no one besides me has paid any significant attention to at all in the last 20 years.
> 
> The Daredevil/Deadpool 1997 Annual wrapped up a major emotional arc in Joe Kelly's original run of Deadpool, and I liked it quite a lot. I actually like Kelly's first Deadpool run a great deal, even if the "humor" has not aged well AT ALL, because i think it has a really solid emotional core that grounds Deadpool's inherent absurdity (mostly. there were a few points that lost me, but this isn't a review of Kelly's work). This annual was, imo, a particularly good example of that but this fic has nothing to do with the larger plot or emotional beats. This fic is a missing scene that suggested itself to me over the course of a few panels following Weasel and Foggy having a night on the town and knowledge of the larger story is largely unnecessary because it is almost entirely porn.
> 
> If nothing else, this is entirely On Brand.
> 
> I've embedded the most relevant panels and posted [the rest of the Foggy and Weasel panels](https://ylixia.tumblr.com/post/183013774060/sometimes-you-write-some-pwp-about-an-obscure-90s) in their entirety on my tumblr, because i don't actually expect anyone to actually go and READ this comic. I don't expect anyone to actually read this fic either, to be honest, but I did have a very good time writing it, so here you go :)

\---

Franklin “Just Foggy” Nelson is, it turns out, a handsy, giggly drunk. That alone own puts him head and shoulders above Weasel’s usual drinking partners, who tend to run the gamut of violent drunk to angry drunk to just plain maudlin sad sack drown your sorrows and maybe everything else and give us some goddamn peace drunk. Wade somehow occupies the entire spectrum all by himself, all of the time — and he can’t even get drunk. Weasel has no idea how that’s possible, he just knows that its usually him that pays for the swing in Wade’s moods.

Anyway, forget Deadpool. He’s busy and Weasel, for once, can focus on what really matters; the fact that Foggy Nelson, respected lawyer and part time superhero sidekick, is truly, magnificently, mind-bogglingly shit at poker. Like stealing candy from babies bad except that that’s almost insulting to babies, the little bastards.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Foggy whines, somehow more cute than grating with his face all flushed and his eyes constantly darting to the television and away. Weasel gives him his best shit-eating grin and settles back in his chair, cracking open a fresh beer with unabashed glee because yeah. He’s totally doing this on purpose.

“What’s the matter, Foggy? Never knocked back a few brewskies and watched a movie with your buds?”

“Yeah but not-” His eyes wander back to the screen as Dusky Rose lets out a throaty moan. She’s one of Weasel’s favorites. No points for creativity on the name but she has a rack that is out of this world and luscious red hair that kind of reminds him of Wade’s squeeze. “Not pornography.”

“Eh.” Weasel shrugs. The dog wanders over and Weasel pats his head when it rests on his knee, enjoying the hell out of Foggy’s squirmy discomfort. “Same diff. ‘Nother hand?”

“Not at all same diff, I - what kind of friends do you have, anyway?”

“Deadpool.”

Foggy blinks, considering this for a moment, and starts giggling. Giggly Foggy is pretty cute too, as it turns out, almost enough to distract from how fetchingly Dusky’s tits jiggle as she rides a fat cock straight through the mattress. Almost. She lets out a showy scream and pleasure and for a few minutes she has a captive audience as they both get distracted by the show. Weasel recovers first; he’s seen this movie before and this part can get a little repetitive. Foggy, though, looks enraptured and Weasel decides to press his advantage.

“So, how about it?”

“’Bout what?” Foggy says, jerking his head guiltily from the TV.

“Another hand.”

“Oh! Ha, yeah, no. I think I’m gonna pass on this one.” Foggy shakes his head. “You got more than enough money off of me tonight.”

“C’mon man, don’t be like that,” Weasel says. “You’re getting better! Give yourself a shot to get your money back.”

Foggy snorts and sips his beer. “Yeah, I bet you say that to all the boys you want to bankrupt.”

“Only the pretty ones,” Weasel drawls, his smile going sharp and his eyes lidded and heavy with promise and whoops, he said that with his outside voice, didn’t he?

Foggy rolls his eyes, his face going brick red. Weasel’s only really exaggerating a little bit; Foggy actually is getting better and on a night were he wasn’t dunk as a skunk and distracted by a series of busty porn stars getting their brains fucked out he’d probably give Weasel a run for his money. Foggy Nelson is sharp as a tack, even if he’s sweet to the point of naivety. And unfortunately for him he’s no match for Weasel on a mission. Wade gave him one job before running after Typhoid Mary, and inane rambles of a crazy person or not if Weasel wants to survive through Deadpool’s eventual discovery of the teleportation incident he can’t afford to fuck it up.

“I’m not losing any more money to you tonight,” Foggy says firmly, meeting Weasel’s eyes this time. He’s got a pretty good staredown, actually. Weasel would almost be impressed if the volume on the TV didn’t ratchet up dramatically the next moment and recapture the bulk of Foggy’s attention.

Weasel hums thoughtfully and pets the dog’s head when he whines for attention. “What if you don’t bet money?”

Foggy’s peels his attention from the movie and narrows his eyes. Like a true superhero-associated normie, he can sense danger even when drunk off his entire ass. “This watch is fake, you know. I don’t own anything worth all that much money.”

The corner of Weasel’s mouth tugs up and he settles back in his chair, getting comfy. It’s been a good night, eating and drinking on someone else’s dime and winning a couple bucks for himself. He’s in that sweet spot of drunkenness when everything is a soft and warm, the booze buzzing pleasantly under his skin. Everything feels sticky-sweet and slow, muted, and it comes out in his voice as a lazy drawl. “Don’t sell yourself short, sweetheart.”

Foggy ducks his head, breaking eye contact. He twists his hands in his lap and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. His mouth looks red and plush and tempting. “I… I’m really not lying about my financial situation here man.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Then what do you want?” Foggy snaps.

Weasel tips his head back and runs his tongue over his lips. “Your ass,” he says.

Foggy chokes. “I…. What?”

“You heard me,” Weasel drawls, ignoring the alarm bells blaring in the one functioning corner of his brain. He’s affecting a lazy sprawl, projecting calm, but he’s watching Foggy’s body language sharply. Flirting with straight boys is a dangerous fucking game, one he shouldn’t be playing when in less than full command of his faculties; most guys will either assume he’s joking and laugh it off or stare him down until plays it off like he was. Every once in a while Weasel manages to find a guy who’s just curious — and drunk — enough to look at his offer at face value and actually consider it, but that’s not the sort of thing to leave to chance like this. At the very least, Weasel is risking being kicked out on his ass in the streets of a strange city and he should really knock it off.

But Foggy’s not laughing, and he’s not glaring. When Weasel looks him straight in the eye Foggy meets him head on and adrenaline spikes in his blood. The temptation to push is overwhelming, sets his heart pounding in his ears.

“You win,” he says, careful to keep his voice even. Casual. “You get all your money back. I win, I get to keep your money and I get to fuck you.”

Foggy’s stares for a moment and something seems caught between them, stretched out and almost tangible. Then his red mouth twists bitterly, and the moment breaks. “Yeah, ha ha very funny.”

“Do you see me laughing?”

“There’s no way you actually want to fuck me.”

“Like I said,” Weasel grins. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Foggy opens his mouth, thinks better of whatever he was going to say, and shakes his head. “I-I’m not…. I don’t — I like women, okay. I don’t swing that way.”

Uh-huh, very convincing. Weasel can see the cracks from a mile away; he considers himself completely straight 90% of the time, but he likes the game sometimes and he plays it often enough. Foggy doesn’t seem like the type to make a habit of straying off the straight and narrow, but right now he certainly looks like he’d love to be a part of Weasel’s ten percent if he could just get his brain out of the way. Weasel has done far more with far less. Foggy doesn’t even seem inclined to punch him. Yet

“I like women too, what does that have to do with anything?” Weasel says with a lazy wave. Really, he should stop, cut it out before Foggy really gets pissed off at him, but Weasel hasn’t gotten to where he is in life by exercising an excess of impulse control. “Either you’re willing to put your ass on the line or you’re not. If you are, put up and shut up. Or — heh — put out and shut up.” Foggy glares but whatever, Weasel is hilarious. “Otherwise, I guess you could just bet your dog.”

Foggy stares at him for a beat. “…You’re not gonna fuck the dog, are you?”

Weasel drains his can and lobs it at Foggy’s head. “Don’t be disgusting.”

“Hey man, I had to ask. For some crazy reason, you don’t strike me as very discriminating.”

“Yeah fuck you too buddy.” He grabs a can from the pack next to the chair and chucks one at Foggy when he starts making grabby hands; if the guy feels the need to have more alcohol to get through this conversation, Weasel is certainly not going to be the one to tell him to slow down. “He’s like a seeing eye dog or some shit, right? There’s this old blind biddy, friend of a friend, who could maybe use the help getting around you know?” Especially if Wade keeps rearranging the furniture around on her. Weasel’s never seen him do it but he knows Wade and he knows his sense of humor. Such as it is.

Foggy’s expression softens a little, but. “That’s sweet,” he says. “But you could just go out and get a seeing eye dog.”

“Sounds boring,” Weasel says. “And you wouldn’t get a chance to win back your money.”

“I’m not winning my money back either way,” Foggy says wryly.

“So defeatist!” Weasel grins. “C’mon, you’re due for a win! Luck is on your side!”

“Pretty sure it doesn’t work like that,” Foggy says, then laughs, shaking his head. “Fine, fine! What’s one more terrible decision at this point.”

“That’s the spirit!” Weasel crows, and deals them in.

Foggy puts up a hell of a fight this time around. He could maybe possibly be halfway decent some day, though Weasel thinks he’s about to put him off the game for good. Because Weasel’s been cheating at poker since he was seventeen years old, against way savvier and more dangerous individuals than a sloshed up Foggy Nelson.

“Oh my god,” Foggy moans when Weasel reveals his hand with a victorious flourish. “Matt’s going to kill me.”

“Wanna try to win him back?” Weasel offers magnanimously, scrubbing the mutt behind the ears and unable to resist one last dig. “You’re still free to bet your — ”

“Nope!” Foggy heaves himself decisively off the couch. “No, no, no. No. I’m definitely done. It is way past my bedtime and I need a shower.” He gives the TV one last lingering look and turns away, shaking his head. “Feel free to crash on the couch.”

“Much obliged,” Weasel says. He closes his eyes and breaths in deep, reveling in the flush of sweet victory. He’s managed to fulfill another of Deadpool’s ridiculous requests and he didn’t hardly have to lift a finger. Now he’s comfortably boozed up with a pocket full of cash, a comfortable couch, and all the pay-per-view he could care to watch. Things are looking good for ol’ Weas right now, and it’s a about damn time, too. If a part of him is maybe a little disappointed, well, that part of him should really have more realistic expectations on how the world works

“Deuce, go lay down,” he orders, and the dog goes obediently to his bed in the second bedroom. Weasel pries himself off the chair so he can close the door behind him, not wanting a face full of dog slobber when he wakes up or whatever. He likes dogs just fine just… in small doses.

The porn’s still playing on the television and Weasel doesn’t even really think about it as he flops on the couch and starts palming himself through his jeans. He’s drunk, it’s the middle of the night, and he’s giving the idle thought to going to sleep sometime soon; naturally it’s time to jerk off.

He’s mostly stayed away from the hard stuff tonight — heh, hard — at least for the second half of the evening, so he’s drunk enough to make his brain go fuzzy but not so much that his vision is blurry or the room spins. And his dick still works, which is really the important part here. His hand on himself feels sweet and good, like he’s been teasing himself for hours and is only just now finally giving himself relief.

It’s a different movie on the screen by now, same actress, and it’s already past all the warm-up bullshit and has moved on to the good stuff, with the lucky lady getting bent over the table and fucked within an inch of her life. Not to be all gay about it, but Weasel likes big cocks, likes watching them split a gal open as she struggles to take it and can’t stop moaning ‘cause it hurts so good. Those moans hook somewhere in Weasel’s caveman brain and shoot straight to his dick. He never really understood the complaints about fake moans porn. Maybe it reminds some guys too much about how their girlfriends sound in bed, but Weasel’s always liked it. Sure, some are better at it than others but its not as if half hearted grunting would be so much sexier —

— Unlike that startled, choked-off moan coming from somewhere behind him.

Weasel grins and keeps doing what he’s been doing. “Thought you went to bed?”

“Have to walk through the living room to get there,” Foggy says, voice strained.

“Oh yeah.” Weasel cranes his neck back on the arm of the couch so he can get an eyeful of Foggy while Foggy’s getting an eyeful of him. “Forgot about that.” He doesn’t stop the slide of his hand on his cock but he does slow down, because Foggy’s gaze is locked on his cock and he’s licking his lips. Christ.

“Aren’t.” Foggy clears his throat. “Aren’t you going to stop?”

“Don’t really see why I would,” Weasel says, returning his attention to the television. Wouldn’t want to make the guy uncomfortable or anything, would he? “It’s just started getting good, and you’re going to bed right?”

Weasel can’t help but notice that Foggy is not, actually, beating a hasty retreat to his own room right now.

“I — b-but I’m —,”

“You’re going to go sleep it off, right? It’s a good idea.” Weasel gives himself a couple of good, rough strokes and can admit that he might be… a little showy about arching into it. “And don’t worry, I’m not going to leave a mess on your things. I have very good aim.”

A very small, very quiet corner of Weasel’s brain, one not quite completely soused in alcohol, knows he’s pushing it. It’s one thing to rile up a new buddy with a few porn flicks and questionable humor, but what he’s doing right now is a great way to get his ass beat. Or, well, considering the kind of guy Foggy seems to be, a great way to get his ass dumped out on the street.

But Foggy hasn’t yet taken his eyes off him, and the rest of Weasel’s brain is shouting about how they can both cap the night with a real good time if Weasel is just the littlest bit patient.

A few long moments stretch out where Weasel doesn’t hear the sound of Foggy’s hasty retreat and dares a look back at him. Foggy is beautifully flushed and a little shellshocked. He can’t seem to move his eyes from where Weasel’s hand is working his dick..

Weasel waits until Foggy notices him noticing him, and before the man can start spluttering out apologies he says “If you’re not going to go to bed, you might as well come over here and get your dick sucked.”

Foggy stares. “What.”

“Yeah, you heard me just fine.” Weasel smirks and waits him out, leaving the offer there like a treat for a skittish woodland creature. Sure enough, hunger wins out and satisfaction blooms hotly in Weasel’s chest when Foggy makes his slow, hesitant way to sit next to Weasel on the couch. He’s breathing kinda heavy, and when Weasel turns to look at him he’s wide-eyed and stiff as a board, and not in a good way.

“Relax,” Weasel murmurs, taking his hand off his dick but not making any moves quite yet. “Just a focus on the TV and think about your ex or the hot chick down the hall or whatever. A mouth is a mouth, right?” It’s not, the stubble’s pretty hard to miss, but most guys find the myth comforting.

“R-right. Sure,” Foggy stammers, keeping his eyes glued to the TV. He’s tense and nearly trembling like a virgin on prom night, and Weasel’s not too shy to admit that he digs it a little. He’s gonna get such a rush from sucking that tension out of him, turning him into a loose, pliant mess.

Foggy’s thighs twitch when Weasel puts his hands on them, and he makes a little squeeky noise when Weasel runs his hands up to his crotch. There’s not much of a bulge there, but Weasel thinks its probably due more to being a little gun-shy than any essential lack on Foggy’s part. Weasel figures he’ll skip the preliminaries, unzips, and dives right in.

All things considered, sucking dick is not Weasel’s favorite recreational activity. He’s known guys — and gals — who go crazy for it. He’s actually got a pet theory that Deadpool would be one of them but he’s not quite crazy or stupid enough to try to test it out. Personally, it’s just never really been his thing.

Sometimes though, after a long string of stressful, anxiety-ridden lonely nights, having a night like this where he’s loose and buzzed and relaxed sort of… awakens something in him. Sometimes a guy just wants to feel someone else’s body heat, feel a little needed, and there’s nothing wrong with that. A heavy makeout session on the couch would probably work just as well. Probably better to be honest, but its a lot harder to convince straight guys to do that than sit back and get their dick sucked.

A loud moan claws its way from Foggy’s throat as Weasel works him with his tongue and lips. A few minutes in he’s still only about half hard — the booze, probably — but his thighs are quivering under Weasel’s hands and his hips keep rocking into Weasel’s mouth. It feels good, the warmth under his hands, the soft press of Foggy’s stomach against his forehead, the leg pressed along his side against the back of his couch. The other is dropped to the floor, giving Foggy a bit more leverage as he rocks and writhes and presses up into where Weasel’s working at him, inhibitions falling away.

Foggy’s cock never really does get fully hard, but Weasel almost likes that better; he feels soft and malleable in his mouth, less intrusive. And it’s not like he’s in a hurry, grinding his dick lazily into the couch cushions, drinking in Foggy’s gasps and choked moans alongside the sweet sounds of a porn star getting dicked down on the TV. It’s good, really good actually, and Weasel lets himself just enjoy the feeling of being calm and warm and turned on. At one point a hand wanders down to settle hesitantly on Weasel’s head, and he finds himself pressing up against the touch. It’s not something he’d normally allow from a guy, even a sweet one like Foggy, but he’s drunk enough and and it’s been long enough and it feels kinda nice. Whatever, right? It’s just this one time.

At one point, Weasel shoves as much of Foggy’s cock down his throat as possible, making him groan sharply and arch into Weasel’s mouth. His hips start twisting on the couch, little aborted movements that aren’t quite thrusts but desperately want to be. Weasel could keep this up for a while, his jaw isn’t even starting to twinge yet, but at some point Foggy’s groans become less pleasure-filled and more frustrated. After a minute of that Weasel pulls off with a wet smack.

“Everything alright?” he asks. Foggy had made a gratifying little whine of loss when Weasel pulled off his dick.

“I want… it feels so good, and I want to but I can’t — ” Foggy covers his face with his hand.

“Whiskey dick?” Weasel murmurs sympathetically, rubbing a thumb soothingly over the soft inside of Foggy’s thigh. Foggy nods, still hiding his face, though the tips of his ears are red. “Want me to stop?”

“No,” Foggy sighs, dropping his head back against the couch’s armrest. “But I don’t want your jaw to get sore for no reason either.”

“I wouldn’t say no reason,” Weasel muses. He’d enjoyed himself more than he usually does when there’s a finish line to be rushing towards. On the other hand there are lots of things he enjoys much more, and if he can convince Foggy to play along…

“I’ve got an idea,” Weasel says with a slow grin. “Do you trust me?”

“No,” Foggy says bluntly. They stare at each other for a moment. “Do it anyway.”

Weasel laughs. “And that,” he says, “is how you got caught up in all this superhero nonsense.”

“Is that how you got mixed up in it?”

“Nah, kid. That’s just my own shit luck.”

When Weasel packed condoms and lube for this little sidekick sojourn to NYC with Deadpool, he thought he was being optimistic to a degree that bordered on pathetic. Now he gives a little prayer of thanks to past-Weasel. Pathetic he may still be, but no one can say he’s not prepared.

Foggy looks a little leery when Weasel pops open the lube and squeezes some out and relaxes only a little when he just uses it to stroke Foggy’s cock. It goes from mostly soft to sort of hard pretty quick so it seems like Foggy’s still along for the ride despite any lingering uncertainties. With his other hand Weasel starts fondling his balls — oh yeah, he likes that — and along the way he just suuuper casually presses a finger against his taint and starts rubbing in wide circles. Foggy moans when he hits the right spot.

“You’re going to put something in my ass next, aren’t you,” Foggy sighs, and if he’s going for longsuffering and resigned he’s missed it by a mile with that glassy look in his eye and the breathless quality of his voice.

“We can quit anytime you like, cowboy,” Weasel tells him.

Foggy looks a little nervous but he waves his hand in a little “by all means” gesture and as far as permission goes that is good enough for Weasel. He pulls back for more lube.

When he comes back, one hand goes to Foggy’s cock and the other moves to press right on the rim of his asshole. Foggy twitches and tenses

“Relax,” Weasel soothes, stroking Foggy’s wilted cock slow and steady. “You’re okay.”

“Easy for you to s- ah!” he gasps as Weasel presses inside. “That feels… weird.”

“Usually does at first. Give it a bit, yeah?” Weasel is gentle, so very gentle, because Foggy is so hot and soft around his finger and he doesn’t dare rush and ruin all his hard work. This is why he can never help taking a swing at the straight boys; they’re always so fucking tight, and ultimately way easier than chicks to convince to do anal once he —

“Mmph! F-fuck, what — ?”

— finds their sweet spot. “There he is,” Weasel smirks.

“Fuck. Goddamn thats…”

“Good?” Weasel’s just keeping it at a light massage around the edges; gotta warm a guy up before pounding his prostate, as he knows very well.

“God, yes.”

“Hate to say I told you so…”

Foggy snorts. “You absolutely do not.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Weasel slips another finger in, drawing a choked little gasp from Foggy’s throat. “Told you so.”

“Sh-shut up.”

Weasel chuckles and gets to work, sinking his fingers in and all around inside, rubbing and pressing and stretching gently as he goes. Most people these days just don’t appreciate the value of a good quality fingerbang, which Weasel thinks is a crying shame. It’s more fun to do than oral, cuz he can just sit back and take in the whole show as he slowly turns someone’s brain to sex-soaked mush. Any asshole can put their mouth on something that feels good, but a good fingering takes skillz. With a z.

And skillz Weasel has got. Foggy is flushed all over, panting, his limbs shaky and loose. He’s started grinding on Weasel’s hand and Weasel grips one plush thigh so he can push a knee towards Foggy’s chest, taking away some of his leverage so he can tease him nice and slow until he’s nearly begging for it. Too slow is far better than too fast for a first timer, and Weasel maybe keeps him at two fingers for longer than he absolutely needs to.

When he does give in and adds another finger Foggy lets out a noise like being punched in the stomach, then groans. “Too fast?” Weasel asks, his voice a low drawl. Foggy shakes his head with feeling.

“Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking — ”

“Oh don’t worry sweetness,” Weasel murmurs, pressing his lips to the inside of Foggy’s knee. “I’m far from done with you.”

He does pause to add more lube, grinning at the grumpy noise Foggy makes, and then he really goes to town, thrusting and rubbing and stretching, pressing in all the right spots and getting Foggy all loose and wet and sloppy. And Foggy is just a picture, gasping for air and clutching at Weasel’s arms, clenching hot and tight around Weasel’s fingers over and over, like all he wants in the world is to feel himself getting all filled up.

Something in Weasel gives at the sight of him, stretches and snaps until he can no longer distract himself from how hard he is, how desperately he wants to sink himself in that hot, tight hole. He’s been so patient, and worked Foggy over so good, and its hitting him all at once now how hungry he is for it.

The foil wrapper crinkles when Weasel grabs it, and Foggy’s eyes widen when he tears it open with his teeth and takes out the condom. Weasel distracts him with a rough and targeted fingerbang, because Foggy can take it now. Takes it beautifully, in fact; eyes rolling up into his head, hips rolling hips down into Weasel’s fingers, groaning loud enough to wake the neighbors. Weasel doesn’t even slow down as he rolls the condom on his dick with his off hand ‘cause he’s just that good.

Foggy’s all gasping and needy when Weasel removes his fingers, but when he meets Weasel’s eye he looks like he’s going to fly apart from nerves.

“Shhh, you’re all right,” Weasel soothes, pressing the head of his dick right up against that lube-wet hole. Even now, after all that stretching, he still looks so small there. He tries to push in but Foggy’s tense all over and there’s a lot of resistance. Weasel’s so wound up it’s a physical effort to keep from just shoving right in, forcing his cock through that vice tight grip and taking all the pleasure he wants. But he tries not to be too much of an asshole. Sometimes. And while it’s vanishingly unlikely he’ll have a round two with Foggy that doesn’t mean he wants to hurt the guy, for chrissakes.

So he pauses for the moment, reaches for Foggy’s cock and works it with long soothing strokes. It’s chubbed up but mostly soft, alcohol and apprehension taking their toll. Foggy still presses into his touch though, so Weasel hasn’t lost him completely.

“Relax,” Weasel says. “It’s supposed to feel good. Tensing up all over s’just gonna make it hurt.”

“Easy for you to say,” Foggy grits out.

“I’m not bullshitting you man I’ve been right where you are.” Weasel quirks a grin at him. “What’s that look for?”

“I. I just didn’t… You seem so…”

“So what? Macho? Manly? A stone cold top? I’d take that as a compliment if I didn’t like getting fucked so much.” He’s overstating a little. Maybe. Mostly. Anyway Weasel gets the effect he’s going for with that little declaration, namely Foggy’s eyes going a little unfocused and dreamy as he no doubt imagines Weasel getting split open by a series of massive cocks. And, fair enough, that’s more or less what happened, except most of them belonged to this real freaky broad with big tits and a frankly ridiculous collection of sex toys. But whatever, Weasel is down with anything that’s gonna crank Foggy’s engine at this point ‘cause it feels like his balls are about to explode.

Foggy hooks his free leg around Weasel’s hips and squeezes a little. “C’mon,” he says. “Do it. I’m as ready as I’m gonna get.”

Weasel kind of wants to ask if he’s sure but he mostly doesn’t want Foggy thinking too hard and deciding the answer is ‘no’, so he starts pressing in before Foggy can start anticipating and tense up again. Before he’s even finished his sentence, if Weasel’s being honest.

It’s slow going and Weasel savors every second. Foggy is still so tight and Weasel pushes and pushes until the head of his cock pops into that little hole and for one terrifying second the sheer relief that rushes through his body is nearly enough to make him come. Weasel shakes with the effort to hold still while Foggy makes these teeny little yelping sounds that Weasel desperately wants to mock except they’re so fucking cute he can hardly stand it.

Jesus. Fuck. It’s been so long since he’s gotten any, and now that he’s not so focused on convincing Foggy to give it up he’s realizing how close to the edge he really is.

“You good?” he grits out through his teeth.

“I think so.” Foggy takes a deep breath that lets out on a little whine. Weasel wants to kiss him. “Just, um. Slow?”

“Yeah,” Weasel agrees. “’Course.”

He doesn’t dare risk anything more ambitious than some tiny little rolls of his hips. His eyes flutter shut. The moans and the sharp slick sounds of skin on skin from the television wash over Weasel and he has to tune it out completely as he works himself deeper bit by bit, till he’s halfway in and Foggy’s body remembers all at once how good it feels and relaxes enough that Weasel sinks right down to the hilt before he even knows what’s happening. Foggy yelps, sharply enough to make Weasel’s stomach flip, worried he’s hurt him, but it turns almost immediately into a long, dragged out moan. Foggy melts into the couch cushions, tightening his legs around Weasel’s hips and tossing his head to expose his throat. He’s still so, so fucking tight, but he’s warm and soft and his body is so much more accepting of him than it was just a moment ago. Weasel tugs on Foggy’s thighs, hiking his hips up and getting his knees under himself so he has the leverage and the angle for a proper fuck. Weasel picks up a gentle, steady pace that immediately Foggy making enough noise to give Dusky on the TV a real run for her money.

“Fu-uck that’s nice,” Weasel groans. “Isn’t that nice hon, being all full up? Yeah, look at you. Everyone’s always so surprised at how good it feels.”

Foggy babbles something incoherent and tugs on Weasel, who very obligingly gives him more. The gentle, rhythmic slap of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with the sounds from the television. Foggy arches his back, pressing his slowly hardening cock between his soft stomach and Weasel’s firmer one. When Weasel slides a hand between them Foggy whimpers, low and needy.

“Look at that, it’s a miracle,” Weasel murmurs, grinning as he takes the firm length in hand. “All you needed was a bit of cock in you and you’re right as rain. You sure you’ve never tried this before? Ever?”

Foggy shakes his head, but his grip on Weasel never slackens. “I’m not, I mean. I’ve never — with a man…”

“Aw buddy, you’ve got more options than that,” Weasel says, a little breathless. He tries for a few strokes to jack Foggy off as he fucks him, but it throws him all off his rhythm. Just as well when Foggy reaches down to take over, because then Weasel can get a proper hold on him and start really going to town on his ass. “All… Alls you gotta do is find a nice lady with tiddies out to here who’ll strap on any cock you like and nail you to the bed with it.”

To illustrate, Weasel leans in and nails him to the couch, making Foggy shout and clench all around him, his hand a blur on his own cock.

“You make it sound so easy,” he gasps. Weasel shoves his thighs till his knees are up to his ears and yeah, that’s a good angle. Foggy is bright red all over and shaking like he’s gonna come apart any second.

“Sweet thing like you?” Weasel says. “Hotshot lawyer just begging for cock? The world is your oyster tiger. Women are better for it, too. They don’t get all pissy when you want a thing with some heft that’s gonna fill you up right.” And yeah, Weasel’s kinda tarring himself with his own brush but he’s about three seconds from busting a nut and he’s got a point to make here, okay. “Certain kinda girl would snap you up in an instant, desperate to bounce her tits in your face while you fall apart on her cock. And after you can bury your face in her snatch and thank her very nicely for giving you the fuck you so desperately need — ”

Foggy makes a sound like he’s dying and locks up all over, clenching rhythmically around Weasel’s cock as he shudders and shakes and shoots all over his chest and stomach, his moans echoing through the small living room. A bead of it lands on his chin and Weasel leans forward to lick it up as he cuts loose, slamming into Foggy’s body and bracing his forehead on his shoulder, shouting as he comes.

\---

Weasel smiles softly at the sight of Foggy sacked out on the armchair, surrounded by crumpled empties and completely dead to the world. He’d given up on walking almost as soon as he’d hauled himself up to his feet, collapsing on the nearest available piece of furniture to leave Weasel to catch a couple Zs on the couch.

He calls softly for Deuce and snaps a lead on the dog’s collar, ruffling his ears and shushing him softly even though Weasel doubts a bomb going off next door would wake the man at this point.

It’s been a good trip, far better than he thought it’d be when Deadpool dragged him on a mission for the psycho bitch Mary. He’s got a nervous, sinking feeling that his luck’s not going to hold out very much longer on that front, but that’s more or less par for the course for ol’ Weas so he puts it out of his mind as he pens a goodbye note.

Foggy’s a good guy but Weasel doubts he’ll be seeing him; the last thing he needs is to be more involved with masks, let alone the hero types. His life is quite enough of a shitshow as it is.

Still, it had been fun, and Weasel finds himself smiling as he shuts the door behind himself. He’s got at least to the rendezvous point to enjoy the afterglow, and he’s not gonna fucking waste it.

\---

fin


End file.
